I first read Little Weirds when I was 21, after watching Slate in the first Venom movie and loving her character. At that time I was going through a breakup with a friend, and I was in unrequited love with God-knows-what (I am always in unrequited love with God-knows-what and whatchamacallit), someone I can't even remember now. Slate's words have always, unfortunately, resonated.

I'd like to live a life where Slate's words in Little Weirds don't resonate with me quite so deeply, LOL.

Anyway, Slate's writing style is not for everyone. It's fast and fluttering and chunky and goes on odd tangents, and its eccentricities are what makes it so relatable to me; my life feels as lopsided and disjointed as her words are at times, and my heart seems to flicker from love to love just like her sentences. This sounds mean, but I write this with the greatest of intentions--Slate's writing "flaws" make me feel seen. 

Slate writes: “PS: Speaking of “sweeping things under the rug,” I don’t think you’d hear even a peep of objection if we were to have a repeat of Rug turns into carpet of flowers that are alive and you can wear the whole thing as a shawl and new blooms keep popping even as you walk casually through a cocktail party at the house of a nice older woman who supports your work.” “"I’m beginning to suspect that I swallowed a rollercoaster and it is lodged between my heart and my stuff. Am I too big or too small or too much or too little? I have always known that I would die for love. I think I am dying while or because of waiting for it. I cannot bear how it feels like a surging throng of beats and yells and gasps inside of my small form. I have wondered on many occasions if any confidence I have is just a weird side effect of foolishness and I live under the weight of so much embarrassment, I’m surprised the top of my head isn’t flat.”

Why is this exactly what I’m going through right now :’)

I’ve read this book so many times in my life, and each time I find new meaning in it. There are so many layers of Little Weirds, there is always more beauty to unravel from her imagery. It’s sort of like reading a religious text for me, except that feels a tad offensive, but in the sense that I am always able to derive some new inspiring message from each word she writes, and I am able to apply each of Slate’s essays to some problem I am going through at any given moment regardless of what the problems actually are. 

“For a while I would have trench-times when everything felt like blank paper and I couldn’t feel anyone’s heart pointed even in my direction, let alone anyone loving me or wanting me to be around. Very boring, very lonely, very tired, again. It was hard to feel anything, except I am not one of the creatures who will experience anything precious. Trench-times were shallow, heavy, and mean.”

Yes, I am in a trench-time right now, Mrs. Slate. I get you. You get me.

But, a hope: mere single digit years after Slate publishes Little Weirds, she will publish Lifeform about the birth of her child and her marriage, and that gives me enough optimism to get me out of the trench-times.